


Because the night belongs to us

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter tapped his pen against the blotter and let himself wonder, for just a moment, where Neal's cover ended. Whether the declarations of love were calculated, whether his body could lie—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because the night belongs to us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zebra363](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zebra363).



> Many heartfelt thanks to mergatrude, dragonfly and sage for diligent and awesome beta.
> 
> For zebra363, for her donation to help_pakistan.

**1.**

"—and when they found the Titian propped by the fire escape, still in its frame, they assumed it had been abandoned there when the thieves were interrupted. It took the museum over a week to get around to verifying it and discovering that it was a forgery mounted in the original frame," said Peter. "So we have a cold trail and Forensics got nothing."

A few people groaned and Cruz muttered something about witness interviews.

"You know, it's a funny thing, this reminds me of one time—" Neal leaned back in his chair, fingers moving endlessly on Peter's stress ball, and Peter got distracted by the line of his collar and the knowledge that just below that crisp, pale blue fabric was a fading hickey the size of a quarter. So distracted it took him a moment to register what Neal was saying. "— _someone I know_ may have broken into the Philadelphia Museum of—"

Peter sent him a sharp look and raised his eyebrows.

"Never mind," said Neal. The stress ball landed on the table, and the front legs of Neal's chair thudded to the floor.

Peter closed his eyes, prayed for patience and resumed briefing the team on the new case.

 

**2.**

"I thought you were supposed to be the master of discretion," said Peter, later that afternoon in the car. "You really want to confess to another heist now, in front of half of the White Collar Unit?"

"It was an anecdote. I wasn't going to incriminate myself." Neal huffed a sigh, and stared out the passenger window. A block later, he added quietly, "It just slipped out. I want to tell you things."

Peter's hands tightened on the steering wheel. There was nothing to say to that. _I wish you could_ wouldn't help, and a blunt _Well, you can't_ would open a chasm between them. They were already operating within a complicated set of rules, spoken and unspoken: that Neal could end this at any time, at no cost to himself; that Peter's reputation must be protected, for both their sakes; that Neal took second place to El because that was the agreement Peter had with her, and sometimes third place to Peter's work because that was just the way it was; that everything hinged on honesty between them, even though they couldn't be completely honest with each other.

That last one had seemed simple, even axiomatic, when they'd started out. Now it was looking more and more like a pitfall. But the idea of Neal Caffrey wanting to confess—no, not confess; to _confide_ —was so improbable that Peter couldn't help wondering if Neal was scamming him. If he had a secret agenda to lull Peter into—something.

The suspicion tasted sour and unwelcome. Neal wouldn't. Probably. Maybe. Peter stared through the windshield at the gathering dusk, streetlights coming on, brake lights and indicators, traffic surging from intersection to intersection, and struggled for something to say. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," said Neal, even though they both knew it was: if Peter would give Neal amnesty, Neal could tell him anything and everything.

But Peter couldn't do that. He pulled up to the curb outside June's.

"Are you coming up?" Neal looked hopeful.

It was nearly six-thirty. El was working till eight. "Just for a short while."

 

**3.**

"A short while" didn't automatically mean sex anymore. When they'd started this, any private moment had been driven and heated. The first time Neal kissed him, Peter barely managed to call El and clear it with her before he surrendered to Neal's embrace, Neal's mouth on his, hungry and desperate. All logic and commonsense had fled. Not that Peter hadn't seen it coming—he and El had been talking about it hypothetically for over a month, ever since Neal hinted at his feelings during a late-night stakeout. Peter didn't react at the time but later, after dropping Neal back at June's, he drove home blindly, the shameful realization unfolding inside him that he felt the same. Somehow, he and El talked their way back to sanity, to possibilities and promises. But through all that, Peter never guessed that Neal would or could sweep him off his feet to such an extent. Kissing Neal had jerked him into full-body surround-sound arousal—as aware of his own height and strength as he was of Neal's, glorying in their similarities and differences, and then falling further in, knowing only the slick tongue sliding across his lips, hands mapping out his shoulders and back, hard hot body pressing him against the kitchen counter in Neal's room, the scents of coffee, cologne and skin, his own heartbeat loud in his ears, the corner of his phone still digging into his palm.

These days, they were as likely to sit on the couch together and drink coffee or beer, shoot the breeze about work or life or nothing at all, share a long hug and make out for a while as they were to strip each other naked. It was nothing Peter couldn't do with El, but El was El, and Neal was Neal, and somehow, at the age of forty-four, Peter found he needed them both.

And sure, sometimes it was about sex, about the white-hot chemistry that sparked between them when they touched, but some days they just needed to touch base away from the constraints of the office. Sometimes they were both consumed by the case of the moment and they talked shop. Sometimes—rarely—El joined them for dinner.

It was almost domestic, in its way, but Peter's relationship with Neal was still a far cry from what he had with El. Peter didn't ask Neal "How was your day?" or discuss household duties with him. They couldn't plan vacations. Peter avoided talking about the managerial side of his job, and Neal usually hid whatever frustration and dissatisfaction with his parole arrangement he might be harboring. Their work may have taken them all over the city, from rooftops to warehouses and underground vaults, but their romance was contained by the white walls of Neal's apartment.

 

**4.**

Peter followed Neal into the house, but Neal paused right inside the front door and angled his head, as if he'd heard something unexpected. He glanced to the right, to a furled pale gray umbrella propped in the stand, and his expression subtly shifted. "You know, I think I'll just have a quiet evening after all."

Peter refused to take the brush-off personally and was determined not to ask about the umbrella. Maybe he would have asked if they hadn't been romantically involved, but as it was, it didn't seem right. Neal would volunteer the umbrella owner's identity if he wanted to, but they already had too many restrictions on what Neal could and couldn't say, he was already under close scrutiny at the office and via his GPS. Peter didn't want to push if he didn't have to. "Okay, well—" He took Neal's hand and squeezed it, hiding the gesture in the folds of their coats. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah." Neal was distracted. He returned the squeeze briefly, dropped Peter's hand and stepped back toward the stairs. Then he seemed to catch himself. His eyes met Peter's, warm and intimate, and his mouth softened. "See you."

Peter swallowed his misgivings and nodded. "Yeah."

 

**5.**

"Something's on your mind," said El that evening, as they were going upstairs to bed. "Let me guess—Neal."

Peter gave her a wry smile. "It's just as well no one else can read me as easily as you do." They went into the bathroom and he took his toothbrush from the rack and tapped the head against his palm. They didn't talk about Neal like they used to: he wasn't a puzzle for them to solve anymore. But Peter wanted El's opinion on this. It affected her too.

"You're still okay with it—with what we're doing?" he asked first.

She looked at him frankly. "I'm good. I told you—if that ever changes, you'll be the first to know." She wrung out her washcloth and winked at him. "I like thinking about you with him, actually, and I don't just mean the sex. There's a satisfying kind of—frisson to it. So long as I can count on you, I'm happy." She nudged him in the ribs. "Are _you_ okay?"

"More than okay," said Peter, returning her nudge. "I know how lucky I am, believe me." He started brushing his teeth, then stopped and told her about Neal's almost-indiscretion at the office that day. "And then he said he wants to tell me things, but they're all things I'd have to arrest him for. I don't know what to do with that."

"You love him." El dabbed moisturizer onto her face and neck. "If you didn't, we wouldn't be doing this. So maybe you need to figure out what loving Neal means."

Peter spat out toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying—" El met his gaze in the mirror and gave him a crooked smile. "If I told you I'd broken the law, would you arrest me?"

Peter sighed through his nose. "You wouldn't break the law. Or if you did, you'd have a good reason."

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. Wrong answer.

Peter followed her into the bedroom. "You're talking about spousal privilege," he said as they got into bed. "If that applies to Neal, then Hughes needs to know about it."

"You know what would happen then," said El, pulling him down so his head rested on her shoulder. "You'd be demoted or worse, and Neal would get sent back to prison." She stroked his hair in silence for a minute. "Honey, if you're sleeping with Neal and you love him, but you have more loyalty to the Bureau than to him, then I think you really need to stop and take a look at yourself. You're better than that. Neal deserves better than that."

Peter shut his eyes, quelled his kneejerk defensiveness and tried to think the situation through without getting distracted by El's touch and the warmth of her body.

Loving Neal was a complicated business, and he was still working it out. Still gauging how much he could trust him. Peter believed in their relationship—that Neal meant it when he said I love you. Without that, the whole house of cards came tumbling down. And he had faith that Neal would abide by their rules, to the best of his abilities. Neal understood rules. But beyond that—

Beyond that, he trusted Neal to be Neal Caffrey, and while Peter could admire his cunning and vast array of skills, Neal being Neal was neither comfortable nor reassuring. So Peter usually tried not to think about how Neal's off-the-clock shenanigans could easily come back to bite Peter in the ass at work.

He might hope that their unofficial relationship would rein Neal in, but he knew that hope was probably misplaced.

"Neal isn't just anyone," he said at last, trying to find a way to convey all that to El.

She shuffled down the bed so they were face to face. "Exactly," she said. "And love doesn't happen in a vacuum. If you love him, you have to love the sum of him."

She pressed her lips to Peter's mouth and pulled away again, her eyes thoughtful and kind. Peter rubbed a faint streak of moisturizer from the bridge of her nose, and she smiled.

"Do you want my advice?"

"Always," said Peter, bracing himself.

El put her hand on his chest. "Talk to him. You're both overcompensating. He used to tell you about his alleged past exploits and you used to find it funny. You used to bring him home for dinner. What's changed?"

Peter opened his mouth, but he didn't have an answer beyond the obvious. He shut it again.

"The closer you two get, the more you shut each other out," El continued, "and then I miss out too. I mean, I don't know Neal like you do, and I'm not narcissistic enough to want to sleep with him, but I care about him, and if you're doing this, I'd like to think he's a part of our family."

Something small and tight twisted in Peter's chest. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." El was all but rolling her eyes at him, as if he should have known this.

He should have. They'd talked about it right at the start—it had just got lost in the confusing, consuming reality of Neal.

The corner of El's mouth quirked. "Neal may be a secret, but I'm in on it, remember? That's something we all have in common." She reached behind her to turn out the light, then slid her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Talk to him."

"I will," said Peter, holding her, immeasurably grateful for what they had. His hand settled on the curve of her hip, drawing her closer. "I love you."

 

**6.**

Peter lay awake most of the night, mulling over what El had said. At four-thirty, he gave up, got up, kissed El goodbye and drove to June's, where he stood outside in the dark and sent Neal a text. _Let me in?_

Three minutes later, the front door opened and a pajama-clad, bleary-eyed Neal peered out. "Peter?"

"Yeah." Peter pushed him back inside and closed the door after them.

They paused in the shadowy foyer, Neal looking confused. "What's wrong? Is it work?"

"Nothing's wrong," said Peter. "It's nothing. I just—wanted to see you." He shrugged awkwardly. "Couldn't sleep."

Neal's forehead furrowed for a moment, then he nodded. "Come on up."

His room was empty—no Mozzie or mysterious gray-umbrella-owning guest—and Neal shed his pajamas and got into bed. Peter stripped, leaving his clothes in a roughly folded heap on the floor, and followed him, sliding between the white cotton sheets and spooning up behind Neal, who was already breathing slow and even, falling back asleep.

Protective and possessive, Peter wrapped his arms around him, kissed his shoulder and drifted off too.

 

**7.**

It couldn't have been more than an hour and a half later that Peter woke to find Neal watching him. Sunlight was slanting through the skylight, drawing straight-line geometry on the ceiling, but the bed was soft and rumpled and Neal's mouth curved invitingly.

Peter rubbed his face and smiled back. He'd only stayed over a couple of times before, and there was a luxury to waking up together, weariness and morning breath and all.

"Hey," murmured Neal, seeming both pleased to have him there and smoothly charming. "Come here."

"You come here," countered Peter, and tugged him forward.

Even after sleeping with Neal in his arms, the deliberate collision of their bodies made Peter catch his breath, and then Neal's mouth was on his, Neal's hot hands trailing down his sides.

"We need to talk," Peter tried to say, but the words evaporated into a gasp as Neal slung his leg across Peter's and lined up their erections, and then nothing else mattered, not even the cool plastic of the tracker against Peter's calf.

"Got you," said Neal, with more than a little triumph. Then Peter covered their dicks with his hand, and the charm and triumph fell away.

Peter fought not to drown in the sensations, Neal's weight over him, perfect pressure on his dick, and skin sliding sweat-slick against skin. Sublime, but not the point. The point was in the clench of Neal's jaw, the tremor of his muscles and the slight clumsiness that proved something important, even if Peter couldn't pin it down exactly, what with the sweet-sharp pleasure rising up in him, blocking out everything else.

Neal kissed Peter, open-mouthed and messy, and Peter welcomed him, saying a silent good morning, just glad to be there with him. But soon need asserted itself, and Peter pushed him onto his back, reversing their positions, and looked down at him—his flushed cheeks and parted lips, the slight stubble on his jaw, the warmth in his eyes.

Peter rolled his hips slowly, drawing it out, and Neal grunted and let him set the pace, even though his muscles shook with the effort of holding back. Peter dipped down and tasted his collarbone, then rested his damp forehead against Neal's, panting and cradling Neal with his body.

"You," he said, not knowing what came next.

"God, Peter, just—" Neal bit his bottom lip, and Peter leaned up and held his gaze as he gave in, moving his hips faster, faster, until the bed creaked and stuttered, and Neal was arching under him, swearing fluently and scrabbling for purchase on the mattress. Peter's vision narrowed and darkened, and he drove on until he came all over Neal's belly in a dark rush of excitement, aware of Neal's strength and the impenetrable intangible barriers they were both putting between them, even now.

Neal was still hitching up restlessly, and Peter kissed him hard, licking into his mouth, loving him, before making his way down Neal's body, stroking and sucking his dick. Neal's harsh breathing scored the air, and Peter gave him everything he could, everything he knew how to give, until finally Neal stiffened, thighs tight and quivering. He gripped Peter's wrist and groaned, spilling into Peter's mouth.

 

**8.**

It was nearly seven, but Peter never wanted to get out of bed. Besides, he and Neal had to talk, and it might be easier if they were both naked. Neal was sketching patterns on Peter's chest with his fingertip and looking enchantingly dopey—his usual post-orgasm state.

Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to tighten his arm around Neal's shoulder. "Why me?"

That wasn't what he'd meant to ask, but it was as good a place to start as any. Neal raised his head and blinked away the sex haze. "I don't know," he said, his eyebrows inching up as he thought about it. "Because you caught me when no one else could. Because we're us. Because I trust you."

"I'm not exactly your type." Peter didn't know if that was strictly true—he could only extrapolate from Kate—but it seemed highly probable, given Neal's taste in other things. Peter was pretty sure he'd know if Neal had a habit of hooking up with ordinary, fashion-impaired FBI agents.

"Love isn't about types. Peter, where are you going with this?" Neal sounded concerned, and Peter shook his head.

"It's nothing to worry about." He bunched a pillow behind his head so he could sit up a little. "I need to be sure this is—real. For both of us."

"It is." Neal's mouth twisted. "Sometimes I think it's the only thing that is."

It hurt to hear the wistfulness in his words. If things were different, if it weren't for El and the Bureau, Neal would have been the one for Peter, the love of his life. As it was, uncomplicated wasn't an option—they were incredibly lucky to have this at all. And the costs of navigating the dynamics between them, from work to privacy and back again, of lying to the Bureau and betraying the trust Hughes and Peter's team had in him—they were serious costs, sometimes overwhelming.

But Peter couldn't deny what they had, the spark and need and quick understanding. It was complicated and easy at the same time, and it was changing him. Without El's blessing, he wouldn't have dreamed of this, but now they were here, he couldn't imagine life without it. He drew Neal up and kissed him. "I love you."

Neal raised his eyebrows, apparently still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"If you want to tell me things, you can." Peter took his hand. "New rule: when we're naked together, you can tell me anything. In confidence."

Neal bent his knee and bumped the anklet pointedly against Peter's thigh. "Completely naked?"

"Forget that." Peter looked into his eyes and willed him to understand. "When we're alone together, then. The boundaries aren't important. I want to be with you, and that matters more than the letter of the law. I need you to know that."

Neal's face was a cipher, and Peter felt a flutter of panic. But then Neal was on him, pushing him back into the mattress and kissing him, and maybe there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe everything was perfect.

 

**9.**

"I stole a Raphael once," said Neal, a few days later. The revelation came out of nowhere. Peter had just got back from the bathroom and Neal was lying on his back, still half clothed but spent. "From the National Gallery of Art in Washington."

Peter bent to lick the sweat from his navel, lay down and propped himself up on his elbow. "How?"

Neal flashed him a smile. "Got a job as a security guard. It was all legit. Well, not my name or my references, of course, but—do you have any idea how tedious security work is?"

"Worse than mortgage fraud cases?" asked Peter.

"Different," said Neal, shooting him a dark look. They'd been wading through legal documents for a week at work. It was taking its toll on everyone's good humor. "The worst part is listening to people's ignorant opinions on art all day. It drove me crazy."

Peter pushed the white unbuttoned shirt aside and settled his hand just below Neal's ribs. "Let me guess. You ditched the security guard uniform and switched to tour guide in less than a week."

"Curator," said Neal. "And then insurance investigator."

"Wait, you posed as an insurance investigator?" Peter tried to tone down his incredulity. Of course Neal had.

"Lots of times," said Neal, amused. "This is the thing, Peter. You only scratched the surface. Remember when we were chasing Curtis Hagen, and you said you'd never heard of him?"

"Yeah." Peter was aware that behind the smile, Neal was watching him. Testing him. "You said I'd only ever heard of the second-best criminals, present company excepted."

"That's right." Neal eyed him expectantly, waiting for him to put the pieces together.

But that meant—Peter frowned. "You're saying we only know about your second-best jobs?" Neal grinned and nodded. "Jesus, Neal. You know how many suspected crimes we have on your file? I'm amazed you had time for the Vinland map on top of that. You're telling me there are dozens more we didn't even know about?"

"Hundreds," said Neal. "The FBI's radar has a pretty limited range, even for white collar crime." He moved Peter's hand to his hip. "You get it now? You guys all think I'm a two-bit stage magician or something, your trick pony that you pull out to distract the suspect while you wait for the search warrant. But you only see what I want you to see."

"And now you're letting me look behind the curtain," said Peter. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered, indignant or terrified. Half the thefts and scams Neal was suspected of made Peter's gut clench if he thought about them too hard—they'd been risky, audacious, smart. Ruthless. "It's a wonder you're still alive. Is there anything you haven't stolen? What's the worst thing you've done?"

Neal looked away. "Corrupting a man of integrity." He sat up and pulled off his shirt, then threw Peter a rueful look. "It's always more fun—not to mention safer—to steal things people weren't supposed to have in the first place. There's a lot of Nazi loot out there, if you know where to look, and that's just for starters."

Peter flopped onto his back and tried to get his head around this new information. "So the bonds—the job we caught you on—"

"It was a rush job," said Neal. "And I got sloppy, partly because there was a particularly attractive FBI agent on my tail. You were very distracting."

"Yeah, right." Peter felt Neal's breath on his shoulder, then a soft bite, a lick, a kiss. "I put you in prison."

"And here we are." Neal seemed distracted, nuzzling Peter's collarbone. "Glass half full."

 

**10.**

Peter sat at his desk with a stack of performance review printouts in front of him, but he couldn't focus. Across the office Neal was goofing around with Cruz and one of the junior agents. There went a coin into his pocket, Peter's stress ball into thin air, and here came a pack of cards. Even Cruz was charmed, laughing and—from her body language—apparently demanding to know how Neal had turned the jack of hearts into an origami swan.

From here, Neal looked young and relaxed, and it was hard to credit him with the capers the Bureau did know about, let alone all the other stuff he'd started disclosing to Peter in private. He was better at undercover than Peter had dreamed. The whole parole arrangement was undercover for Neal.

Peter tapped his pen against the blotter and let himself wonder, for just a moment, where Neal's cover ended. Whether the declarations of love were calculated, whether his body could lie—

He stopped himself. It wasn't like that. Neal wouldn't use him like that. Wouldn't betray El's faith in him. He wouldn't. Probably.

The phone rang.

 

**11.**

Peter went to Neal's desk. "I hope you don't have lunch plans."

"I do now," said Neal, standing up.

They went to the park and ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Peter re-wrapped his sandwich and said, "What do you know about Victor Beauchesne?"

Neal glanced up too quickly and held his sandwich out so that horseradish sauce dripped onto the grass. "Who's asking?"

Which was as good as a confession, right there. Peter sighed. "Off the record."

Neal nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. "An old friend came by last week," he said. "She needed me to distract a mark while she retrieved something that belonged to her."

"Distract how?" said Peter, which was not the point. Shouldn't have been the point, anyway, but the "old friend" line was setting off alarm bells. Peter would've bet his 401(k) that this had something to do with the gray umbrella in June's foyer.

"I bought him a drink," said Neal, dabbing at his shirt cuff with a paper napkin.

Peter's world tilted, and it should have been suspicion, that was the appropriate response, but Peter was too far gone for that, blindsided by the image of Neal charming another man, the smile, the intimate gestures. And that was ridiculous! Neal used his sex appeal all the time in the pursuit of criminals; this was no different. But logic didn't stop Peter feeling like a fool, helpless and frustrated and jealous.

When he didn't reply, Neal looked up, measured him with a glance and frowned. "Peter, it was just a drink. You can't seriously—" He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You have a wife. You have a home and a dog, and you have me."

"I know," said Peter. He had no right to feel this way. El would give him hell if she knew; the fact that Neal was reasoning with him instead spoke volumes about their relationship.

"So don't be like that," Neal was saying. "Nothing happened. Come on."

"I'm okay." Peter stared at the lake while he got his shit together. Then he widened his knees, so their legs brushed. "That was out of line. I'm sorry." Neal ducked his head in acknowledgement, and Peter made himself get back on track. "So your friend needed you to distract—I'm assuming the mark was Beauchesne? Do you know why?"

"He had a book that belonged to her. Voltaire's diary." Neal's shoe nudged up against Peter's.

Peter thought about pulling away, but he couldn't bring himself to, not when Neal was freely volunteering information. "I don't know about a diary. I do know that Beauchesne has reported the Queen Marie of Romania Sapphire missing." Neal's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Neal grimaced. "Alex has a thing for royalty."

Peter closed his eyes and breathed. "Dammit, Neal. You helped her steal a priceless—"

"All I did was distract a mark," interrupted Neal. Peter blinked his eyes open, and started to say something about aiding and abetting, but Neal didn't give him a chance. "It was inside my radius, I have plausible deniability, and Alex has done a lot for me over the years. If I'd refused to help her, she'd have wanted to know why."

"Indentured servitude to the FBI doesn't cut it as a reason?" asked Peter.

"No."

"Neal—"

Neal held up his hands, sandwich and all. "Alex and I go way back," he said, obviously trying his best to sound matter-of-fact. "She knows me, and she knows that the only thing that would make me go straight is—" He hesitated.

"What?" Peter almost held his breath. Forget the fountain of youth or the location of a stolen jewel. This was the secret he really wanted: how to make Neal be good.

Neal looked him in the eye. "Being in love." His gaze dropped to his sandwich, but Peter didn't think he was seeing a half-eaten roast beef on rye. "If I'd said no, she'd have wanted to know who I was seeing. And she's perceptive—it wouldn't take her long to figure it out."

Peter sat back and gazed at the park, at the people walking past, enjoying their simple, normal, everyday lunch hours, smiling and chatting about celebrities and vacations and things that didn't matter. Life would be so easy if he weren't in love with a professional criminal.

Compared with the least of Neal's past transgressions, the sapphire was nothing: he hadn't stolen it himself, hadn't even known about it, according to him. But—

"You were protecting me?" Peter said, finally.

Neal bent his head. "I was protecting us."

There was really nothing to say to that. They were each treading a fine line; Peter wasn't the only one making compromises. And if he hated the idea of Neal being obliged to collude in crimes to protect them, well, Peter should probably cast out the ethical log from his own eye before he worried about that. "Okay."

 

**12.**

One frosty Monday morning not long after, Neal sauntered out of June's front door, got in the car and handed Peter a long white envelope. Peter turned it over without looking, too busy trying to figure out if Neal was really as pleased with himself as he seemed or if he was faking it. He couldn't decide, so he looked at the envelope: it was embossed with the name of a charity hospital and addressed to Peter's alias from the Hearts Wide Open case. The rest of the address was a post office box. "What's this?"

"It's a gift." Neal didn't smile, but his gaze could have lit up a couple of city blocks.

Peter stared at him for a moment, then tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter and scanned the first few lines. _Dear Dr. Tennenbaum, It is with the greatest appreciation that we received your generous donation of $500,000 toward our new chiropractics center—_

Peter looked at Neal, startled. "Did you—?"

Neal straightened his tie and said nothing.

"That's quite a gift." Peter reached over and stuffed the letter into his glove compartment, then let his hand brush Neal's knee, linger there as he sat back in his seat. "Where did the money come from?"

"Oh, you know," said Neal. "Here and there."

Peter shot him a smile and raised his eyebrows. "Guilty conscience?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Neal's face. "Maybe." He grinned.

 

**13.**

Another case, another sting. Peter spent eleven interminable hours with his heart in his mouth, listening through headphones and static while Neal conned Mark Moreland, a suspected horse-race fixer and murderer, and got enough tape for a clean bust. For once it went without a hitch, and afterwards the team went back to the office, elated and punchy. Hughes even clapped Peter on the back. But there was something off about Neal's manner, beneath the self-congratulatory grins, so when everyone else left for the night, Peter called El to say he wasn't coming home.

"All right, honey, but block out your weekend for me," she said. "I know you and Neal are working through some stuff, but I've got dibs." Then she sighed. "But yeah, not tonight. The way this evening's looking, I won't be finished here before midnight anyway."

"This weekend, I promise," said Peter. "I love you. Good luck with the gala—thing."

She laughed. "Right. Give my love to Neal," she said. "Oh, and hey, maybe bring him home for dinner tomorrow?"

"I'll ask him," promised Peter. "See you tomorrow."

"Ask him what?" said Neal from the doorway.

Peter hung up and turned to face him. "Dinner tomorrow. El misses you."

"Definitely." Neal looked pleased. Still edgy, but Peter wondered now if that were always the case after a bust, if he was only just learning to see it.

He reached for his suit jacket. "Good. Let's go."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Neal raised his eyebrows.

"Nope." Peter patted his pocket. "I've got it right here. Let's go."

 

**14.**

Peter left the replacement tracker blinking on Neal's dining table and went over to the bed. "Completely naked," he said, shrugging out of his jacket, toeing off his shoes.

It was the first time they'd had the opportunity to be together without the anklet, and he was already anticipating the slide of their bodies, the uninterrupted line of Neal's calf. He swallowed hard and unbuckled his belt, determined not to touch him until they'd dealt with their clothes.

Neal was diligently hanging up his suit, putting away his hat, as if he didn't feel the same urgency, but when he looked at Peter, his eyes were dark. "Come here."

His voice was quiet but compelling. Peter finished stripping off his underwear, stepped forward and caught the subtle tension in Neal's shoulders, in the angle of his neck, his wrists, his stance. Today had been tough on Peter; it must have taken an even greater toll on Neal, who'd been in the thick of it. Peter kept his voice low too. "Are you okay?"

Another step, and maybe it was the lamplight, but for a second, Peter saw Neal, the consummate con artist, forger and thief layered over his familiar friend and lover. The double vision gave Peter the same sense of being out-classed that he felt with El sometimes when she was telling him how she'd orchestrated some exclusive society shindig. Peter didn't have a romantic view of crime, but Neal was something else, rare and special; Peter felt humbled.

"Come here," repeated Neal. He didn't move, so Peter walked right up to him and tugged him into a hug. Neal's silk boxers were soft, his body hot and hard but not turned on.

It took a minute, and then he sighed deeply and melted in Peter's arms, leaned his head on Peter's shoulder. "Now I'm okay."

He sounded so tired and content, it made Peter's throat ache. "Good." He held him tight, and at last he let himself think about all the ways the sting could have gone wrong.

"Peter," Neal's words puffed warm against his neck, "you're the only one."

"I know." Peter closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Neal's hair. He couldn't say it back, however strong his feelings. It wouldn't be fair to El. It wouldn't be true. He settled for "I love you," and pulled Neal onto the bed with him, where they made short work of the boxers, then moved together, touching and loving. A couple of strokes and Neal was hard in Peter's hand, his mouth hot and demanding. Peter kissed his neck and chest and dick, straddled him and rubbed against him, glorying in the here and now. Their legs tangled, and there was no tracker keeping them apart, and Jesus, why couldn't it always be like this with them?

A languid heavy pleasure glowed and built deep in Peter's belly. Neal rolled them so he was on top, lined them up and cupped Peter's face, rubbing his thumb across Peter's cheek and watching him as their hips rocked in unison. Both of them were breathing hard, and with Neal's need evident in his warm blue gaze, Neal's body everywhere, filling Peter's world, it was beautiful—so damned beautiful it made all of the risks and compromises worthwhile.

Neal threw his head back, gasped, and pulsed onto Peter's belly, and Peter dragged him down into a long, involved kiss, pouring his heart and soul into it, swearing into Neal's mouth, and then, soon after, coming hard, his whole body shaken and buzzing, sweat prickling his hairline.

Neal lifted up a little and looked down at the mess they'd made, a grin lighting his eyes. "There's gotta be a less messy way to do this."

Peter shrugged. He didn't give a rat's ass about messy, but Neal's eyebrows were raised in a challenge, and it didn't take long to catch on: condoms, fucking. "Anything you want," said Peter. "I mean it."

 

**15.**

"—I wasn't going to take the battle axe, but everyone at the gala was really drunk—"

"Because you spiked their champagne," said Peter, trying to project disapproval, but really just amused.

Neal shrugged one bare shoulder modestly, making the covers slip down. "It seemed irresponsible to leave it there. Anything could have happened."

"Catering companies really need to get better at vetting their staff." Peter shook his head. "So you got away with Martha Washington's love letters and a seventeenth century European battle axe."

"And the Duchess of York's earrings," said Neal. "It was an eclectic haul."

"The Duchess of York's earrings? Let me guess, a present for Alex." Peter stretched sleepily and kissed Neal's shoulder. Sunlight was creeping across the ceiling. "What did you do with all this stuff—have a yard sale?"

"Something like that," said Neal distractedly, his hand straying down Peter's side.

Peter reluctantly caught his wrist to stop him. "We need to get going."

Neal sighed. "Duty calls."

But neither of them made a move to get up until Neal turned his head, sniffed Peter's armpit and grimaced. "Man, you really need a shower."

"Yeah, yeah." Peter hauled him close and kissed him soundly to stop the complaints. It worked a little too well, but they still had to get moving.

Twenty minutes later they were showered and dressed, and Peter was watching Neal knot his tie. The tracker was still where Peter had set it on the table, and he wished with all his might they could leave it there and go out into the day as equals.

Neal caught him looking. "Better not forget that."

"Neal." Peter moved toward it, but he couldn't bring himself to touch the damned thing. The room seemed to have darkened, the walls pressed in. "I wish—"

Neal picked it up and dangled it from his index finger. "It's not that big a deal, Peter. Don't worry about it."

"It's a big deal to me." If it weren't for the tracker and Neal's parole, everything would be different. They'd still have to be discreet, but there wouldn't be this constant sense of danger, of being under scrutiny.

He closed his eyes and breathed, and the next second Neal's hand was gentle on his face, Neal's lips soft and sweet against his. As they kissed, Neal put the tracker into his hand. Peter sighed against his mouth. "Okay."

Neal's mouth twisted in a wry facsimile of a smile. He put his foot on a chair and pulled up his pants leg. Peter knelt down and kissed his ankle. Then he fastened the tracker into place.

He stood up, dusted off his knees and tried to make a joke of it, but he had nothing.

Neal collected a gray felt hat from the top of the closet and settled it on his head, checked himself in the mirror one last time and then caught Peter's eye, and the connection between them was like a physical thing.

"It's the price we pay," said Neal quietly, more sympathy than resignation.

Peter nodded. He straightened his shoulders, put on his game face and got ready to lead the way outside.

 

END


End file.
